The Fox and The Hound
by TheEnigmaticStranger
Summary: A whirlwind of ferocity, impulsiveness and strength collides with a tidal wave of cunning, cold brutality. One is guided by instinct, the other guided by a faulty moral compass - together, intensity gains new meaning.
1. Prologue

_MOJAVE OUTPOST 08.13.2281 ORDER/DELIVERY RECEIPT_

_Courier One Status: **Checked in**  
Courier Two Status: **Checked in**  
Courier Three Status: **Checked in**  
Courier Four Status: **Checked in**  
Courier Five Status: **Checked in**_

__Courier Six Status: **Unknown_**_

I am Courier Six.

Or "Red," among the fiends and raiders. McAdams to NCR's bounty hunters. Ask for Athena back east – that's me. Minerva to friends. Minnie, to my father.

In the big picture, who I am doesn't matter. But what I've done – oh, the things I have done! – will change the west for years to come. Do I regret any of it? No, of course not.

After all, well-behaved women _rarely_ make history.


	2. Chapter 1: Goodsprings

Well, here goes nothing. My very first Fanfiction. :3 I became consumed with this character idea during my (favorite) playthrough of Fallout: New Vegas, and decided to try my hand at writing it out. A lot of dialogue will stray from the game, as well as some facts - for example, this courier does not receive a Pip Boy. I always thought the way they worked that in was just a liiiittle too convenient. I've taken a lot of creative liberties with the Fallout universe, and I hope they sit well with you. I'd love reviews with advise, suggestions and even critique. Oh, praise, too, I wouldn't mind that. xD The beginning is pretty vague, doesn't tell you much about the courier besides a view of her personality and some of her basic history, but it'll get detailed further along. I'm flying by the seat of my pants right now. Anyway, first chapter... shazaam!

* * *

_Shit._

Minerva couldn't remember the last time she'd woken up feeling like she just rolled out of a meat packing machine – and there was a goddamn good reason for it. She knew how to survive in the wastes. She knew how to handle a gun (big guns, little guns, any guns) and she knew her way around medicine. She cooked pretty well, moved fast, had a sharp eye, a quick wit and _holy motherfucker,_ one terrible headache as of right now.

"You're awake... how 'bout that."

Huh? A voice she didn't recognize filled the _room_ she didn't recognize. Minerva only barely made out a ceiling fan through the tightly squinted slits of her eyes, which began to smart and water during her herculean effort of opening them, but from what she saw, she realized she was most definitely NOT hiking under the western sky on her merry way to New Vegas anymore. Minerva uttered something which sounded close to the bastard love child of a groan and a curse, slowly hauling her upper body into a sitting position. She felt groggy, but above all else, unbelievably pissed.

"Woah there, easy now, easy... You've been out cold for about a week."

The old man's voice penetrated her hazy thoughts and finally caught her attention. Minerva's dark, red-rimmed gaze swiveled to meet kind, wrinkled blue eyes observing her with curiosity and concern. A doctor – not a good sign. Minerva supposed things could be considerably worse, such as bleeding to death in a desolate valley surrounded by unsympathetic tumbleweeds and radscorpions or bleeding to death in general. Obviously she was still alive, if agonizingly so, which meant she needed to get back to business.

"What happened?"

Straight to the point. Minerva never spent her time beating around the bush, not even for the sake of diplomacy. The patient fixed her attendant with a no-nonsense look, all the while giving herself a quick pat down to make sure everything was in order. She'd been stripped to her skivvies, but besides a few various nicks, scrapes and scars, the rest of her body appeared functional.

"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings – you're one lucky little lady. Usually when someone takes a bullet to the noggin, they stay in their graves, but I guess you're the exception."

Minerva's face changed subtly, but she hid her shock and anger under a thin layer of bravado. _Oh, of course. I get shot in the head all the time. I practically chew lead bubblegum. _But Goodsprings – how did she end up here? Last thing she remembered was... was...

* * *

Minerva remembered thinking that the bright glow of New Vegas was a beautiful backdrop for a murder scene – unlike the moon, muted behind large gray clouds, too chickenshit to witness her end. This wasn't supposed to _be_ the end, though. Minvera refused to die so uselessly, so anonymously - the 9mm sticking its muzzle in her face, however, had other ideas. Her skull ached, particularly in the back, and try as she might, her wrists and ankles were bound too tightly to escape. She couldn't reach for the switchblade tucked inside her boot; she couldn't lunge for the checkered suit's pistol and turn the tables on him. She couldn't do anything besides glare at her grim reaper with frightening intensity during his nonchalant, one-sided discussion over her fate.

**Click**. Her eyes narrowed.

"_...truth is, the game was rigged from the start."_

**Click.** She spat at the ground in front of him.

"Fuck you."

A gunshot. A thud. Then silence.

* * *

The courier tugged listlessly at the cobalt vault suit Doc Mitchell was considerate enough to lend her – it reminded her of her father, though. Luckily those memories were dim and unimportant compared to the most recent recollection that plagued her.

The _fink._ The rat bastard that shot her point blank and still managed to miss. Doc explained to her exactly what sort of trauma she'd suffered – turned out the bullet just barely scraped over her frontal lobe and her actual skull took most of the damage. She had a nasty exit wound on the top of her head, as well as a hole Doc Mitchell drilled to relieve the swelling in her brain. Her ponytail was gone, replaced with a brown fuzz that showed off her new assortment of war trophies. Minerva didn't care so much about the new 'do – her hair grew fast anyway. But the jagged, tell-tale sign of her unfortunate experience _did _bother her. The scar was like a mini-fissure straddling her scalp and hairline, a tangible crack in her composure. She'd been shot before, multiple times, but she'd never felt this upset by it.

_I messed up._

Thirty-three years surviving on the remnants of good ol' America amounted to nothing if she couldn't show for them. The Khans who ambushed her were good - Minerva's ego insisted they must have been great - but she was better. She was a goddamn veteran. How did she let that happen?

Oddly enough, what angered her most was the fact that she no longer held the package. That little chip equated to a _lot_ of caps, and she got jipped. Doing mercenary work was easier than this courier crap, because at least she expected to get the shit kicked out of her. This just... god, this just sucked. Originally from Florida, a swampy version of post-nuclear hell, Minerva intimately understood the true meaning of FUBAR. _"You've never seen nothin' till you see a Radgator snapping its jaws at you."_ Made Deathclaws look like fuzzy kittens. Boatflies paled in comparison to over-sized mosquitoes. Snakes, panters, even some of the birds were terrifyingly lethal. Minerva figured she ought to quit her whining and get on, but something about being bested by a dandy and his tribe goons really heated her up. In a dog eat dog world, Minerva was a blood hound - she'd find her assailants and return the favor they'd done her. She made a much better gunwoman than a fucking _mail girl._

"How're you holding up?" Doc Mitchell, bless his aging soul, sat down beside her on his worn sofa. She'd opted to stay inside a little longer to gather her wits and decide on a game plan. All that remained of her pre-shot-in-the-face inventory was a delivery paper a handgun, switchblade, a handful of caps, stimpacks and other essentials - the clothes she'd worn were too soiled to be salvaged, so the Doc would let her keep the jumpsuit. For that she was grateful, but Minerva struggled to convey it.

"How would you feel?" She asked bitterly in reply, palming her forehead and rubbing circles into her temples.

"I reckon I wouldn't be alive. Listen, if you want to get back on your feet, I recommend visiting the saloon. Sunny Smiles might be able to point you in-"

"Sunny Smiles?" Minerva interrupted, jerking her face away and blinking incredulously. "Are you mocking me?"

Doc Mitchell chuckled, evidently unsurprised by the acerbic woman's reaction. "No, that's her name. Gets a lot of flack for it, but it suits her well enough. I'm sure she'll be happy to help you out. Trudy, too. If you want to stay a while in Goodsprings, nobody's stoppin' ya, but I figure you for the type to... ah..."

"Serve a cold dish of bloody, painful revenge? You bet your sweet wrinkled ass, Doc. I'll be out of town by morning."


	3. Chapter 2: Primm

Minerva was out of town sooner than she expected.

She liked to think that the fault was not entirely hers – if that imbecile in the gas station hadn't greeted her with his peashooter aimed between her eyes, maybe she wouldn't have whipped out her 9mm and pulled the trigger so quickly. It was just the trader's real bad luck that Minerva happened to be a _little_ sensitive to guns pointing at her face.

She looted his body wordlessly, as well as the rest of the building, taking a brahmin-skin bag off the corpse and filling it with soda, food and ammo. The courier supposed this was Ringo, the fellow she'd overhead about in Trudy's bar. After being given a varmint rifle by Sunny, gratis (the Doc hadn't been kidding), Minerva decided to stick around for a drink. Halfway into her beer some dick stormed in, demanded to know where 'Ringo' was, and stormed back out in a fuss when the bar waitress flipped him the bird. Minerva didn't inquire any further because frankly, she wasn't interested – but now she wished she'd known more about the situation, because she'd just unintentionally become a part of the drama.

Woops.

She scratched her head quizzically, careful to avoid the healing scar tissue, and weighed her options. It sounded like she'd actually helped Goodsprings out, getting rid of this guy, but she doubted they were of a similar mind. Powder Gangers were a nasty bunch, but not the brightest or the toughest. Trudy and the others would probably consider this a sign of weakness, or worse, corruption - good people didn't kill innocents to keep their hides safe, and Minerva reckoned Goodsprings was full of, well, good people. They'd pitch a fit. Minerva knew better, though;_ true _innocence had no place in the wasteland, and it was foolish to think otherwise.

Well, it wouldn't do to linger. Somebody would discover the mess she left eventually, and by then, she planned to be miles away. Only six hours awake from a coma and she was already packing up and heading out, resilient as ever. She wrapped a strip of cloth stolen from Ringo's body around her head like a bandanna, tied under her chin, and fit his goggles over her eyes - she was used to wearing even more protective clothing to keep her skin from burning, but this would have to do for now.

Rifle strapped over one shoulder, knapsack slung over the other, she holstered her pistol and slunk out of the gas stop, departing Goodsprings as abruptly and mysteriously as she'd entered it. She knew where she was heading and how to get there - Primm, Trudy said - but she wasn't expecting the farewell committee she encountered further along down the road.

A group of Powder Gangers, including the dick, were lounging by rusted cars and the skeleton of a building. She eyed them warily, hand rested over her pistol as she continued, chin raised and gait confident, through the sausage fest.

"Hey, you." Dick waved to her, but before he could say or do anything else she raised her hand and cut him off brusquely, still walking.

"I offed your caravaner, but I'm leaving. Don't ask me to help you with any dirty work, and don't stare at my ass. Or shoot it." The strangled silence that ensued, which soon erupted into arguing among the incredulous convicts, made her smirk. Joe Cobb watched the tall, oddly dressed woman saunter on her way, and after a moment of deliberation, came to the conclusion it would be unwise to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He did, however, note that she owned a very fine ass.

* * *

Primm was a shithole, and not any fun to ransack, either. First house she snooped in stunk of death - probably since there were rotting, headless cadavers strewn across the bed - and she'd been forced to waste precious ammo on some dumbasses who thought they could blow her up with dynamite. Once was stupid enough to wait too long to throw their stick and, oh boy, she'd remember _that_ laugh for a while. Nothing quite like watching someone explode into a fountain of tomato soup. Idiot.

Among Minerva's many idiosyncrasies was her extremely morbid brand of humor and justice. How could she take anything too seriously here? The entire world was one big clusterfuck, and she pitied anybody who tried to make sense of it. Why attempt to bring rhyme and reason to a universe ruled solely by its_ lack _of rules? The only thing you could predict in the wastes was unpredictability. Self-entitlement, an inherent human flaw, weeded out the living from the dead. To survive, you needed to realize you didn't _deserve_ to; that you had to earn it.

Slowly prying open the door to Vikki and Vance's, Minerva peered inside, relieved to see that Primm hadn't been reduced to a ghost town. She shoved the eye-wear down her neck and closed the door behind her, setting her sights on a leathery face she'd seen before. He worked for the Mojave Express - Johnson Nash.

The courier approached him and they nattered for a bit. She learned some very interesting information, but not what she wanted - apparently to get what she wanted required a massacre, but heck, what was a little more bloodshed?

Perched on a stool next to Nash and eating casserole, Minerva swept her gaze over the rest of the casino. Primm residents were marching around, some armed, clearly paranoid. She quirked an eyebrow in bitter amusement; Primm seriously lacked initiative. They appeared to have plenty of firepower but no guts. Even NCR, camped just outside the town, wasn't doing a damned thing. Naturally.

"Guess I'll rescue your Deputy," the former mercenary sighed, adjusting her goggles back and sliding off her seat. "I just hope he's worth it."

* * *

Minerva crossed over to the Bison Hotel, recently taken under siege by a gang of escaped criminals. Not in the mood to fuck around, she kicked open the front doors, service rifle (courtesy of Nash) in hand. Two convicts in the lobby were the first to be mowed down, and she dumped both bodies into the corner for later pilfering. She'd stripped one of their bullet-proof vest, fastened it over her suit and continued through the hallways quietly. One man, of stocky stature, was turned away from her and fiddling with an operable vending machine. Minerva crept behind him, brought the butt of her rifle down on his head and slit his throat after he crumpled to the floor.

She found a bottle of Cateye stashed in his pocket and popped open the lid, swallowing a pill without hesitation. After running with fiends, Minerva considered these drugs vitamins. Psycho she'd never touched, Jet only a few times, Mentats more than she liked to admit. But Cateye was practical, and the minute she metabolized the enhancement she could see better immediately. No harm, no foul, right?

Minerva resumed navigating, eventually finding the hotel's kitchen. She noticed there were double doors to the right, which revealed a large room that appeared empty - appeared, anyway. It made her nervous, so when she tip-toed inside and Beagle opened his mouth to greet her, she lunged forward and grabbed his throat, effectively choking the words off.

"Shh," she hissed, glancing behind her shoulder anxiously. This would be tricky, because dead men never told tales. If Beagle died, her hopes of finding the Khans and the Chairman were sliced in half, if not diced into a thousand little pieces and scattered to the wind. Beagle was her best lead.

"I'm going to cut the rope, but don't go anywhere." She'd use the kitchen's island as a barricade, and hopefully-

"Shit! Watch out!"

Minerva's blood ran cold and she scrambled up, rifle clattering to the floor. A convict was heading toward a fridge, but stopped dead in his tracks when Minerva appeared from seemingly no where. She put a bullet in his throat before he could draw his own weapon, but the commotion brought the remainder of criminals dashing to the kitchen. Her heart sank at the sight of an Incinerator. She was fucked.

Dropping to her knees to avoid the spray of bullets in her direction, Minerva threw her leather bag on the floor and plunged a hand into it. In seconds she produced a frag grenade, and in a time interval shorter than seconds she pulled the pin and lobbed it over the island platform, straight into the middle of amassing enemies.

A few shouts, a _boom_ and the wet splatter of viscera later, all was silent. She steadied her breathing and peered around the counter to survey the damage she'd caused. Severed limbs, charred guns and tiny flames were scattered around the kitchen's front entrance. Thank god it had a back door. Ignoring Deputy Beagle's panicked rambling, she flicked open her switchblade and tore through his binds.

"_Can't believe you pulled that off - thought we were dead for sure - glad I could help though, warning you and all-"_

Minerva's ears were still ringing and Beagle's voice didn't help. Aggravated, she cuffed him.

"Ow! Jesus, why'd you-"

"Shut up for one _fucking_ minute!" His mouth clamped shut.

She gathered her things and stood, gesturing him to follow suit. Beagle rose to his feet hesitantly, wringing his newly freed hands. Minerva sighed heavily at the childish way he looked at her, like a kicked puppy. No wonder he'd been captured so easily - what were the qualifications for deputies anyway?

"I need you to tell me about three men who made a pit stop here in Primm. Two Great Khans and a pretty boy wearing a tacky ass suit."

Beagle brightened and brushed some grit off his jeans. "Well, you've come to the right deputy. Let's get out of here and I'll tell you everything I know."

Minerva smiled. For the first time in the last 24 hours, things were looking up.


	4. Chapter 3: Rest

Hah, forgot to put in my author's note. xD I'm starting to delve into Minerva's history a bit more - I've plotted it all out, but I'm only going to reveal it in segments. There's a lot to go through. Thanks for all the story alerts and stuff. Reviews brighten my day. And I agree with Shadow-Ocelot... Bethesda really needs to make a Fallout: Florida. Can you imagined an irradiated Everglades? Makes me wanna jizz and shit myself at the same time. _; PS. Sorry in advance for any typos. I think I need one of those beta people. I can never seem to catch my own mistakes. Anyway, on with the show!

* * *

Rather than sit and have drinks with the people of Primm, listening to Deputy Beagle rattle on about how he'd escaped from the Powder Ganger's perilous clutch (with "minimal aid" - Minerva rolled her eyes at the thought), she returned to the Bison Hotel - it _was_ a hotel after all, so why not take advantage of its services? Exhaustion had finally settled over her, and it was the most she could do to drag herself back inside, loot the dead, and head up the stairs for some much-needed shut-eye. Running on pure adrenaline and anger for more than ten hours was taking its toll. Add recent head trauma to the equation, and, well... falling down and passing out seemed like a close possibility at this point.

To her chagrin, convicts were hiding inside the second floor of the hotel - though they didn't attack right away (probably heard the ruckus earlier) she drew her pistols out, two revolvers she'd found, and took care of the remaining criminals. Powder Ganger... what kinda dumbass name was that anyway? Minerva kicked the fallen corpse by her feet and wiped beads of sweat off her brow. She would have preferred not to sleep in a slaughterhouse, but beggars couldn't be choosers. She'd slept in the near vicinity of worse things.

Minerva set her stuff down in one of the rooms that wasn't cluttered with debris and rubble and began to explore the rest of the building, gathering ammo and useful items she found. She felt particularly pensive now that she had time for relaxing, and unsurprisingly, her thoughts strayed to what Beagle told her.

_Through Nipton to Novac._

She entertained the idea of cutting across Primm pass and heading them off, but decided against it. Minerva was no stranger to the Mojave terrain, but even she would have trouble managing such a feat under conditions like these. Sure, she could handle a firefight and come out relatively unscathed, but the dangers of the wasteland weren't limited to gun-wielding lunatics. Radscorpions, Deathclaws, Cazadors - god, she hated Cazadors - all posed serious threats. She wasn't fully prepared for that right now.

Stripping down to her underwear, Minerva rummaged through a dusty wardrobe in the room she'd holed up in, producing a grunt outfit similar to the clothing she'd worn before... before. Minerva closed her eyes tightly, jaw clenched as she tried in vain to shut out her thoughts, but the ship had sailed - once again, the three faces of her murderers stared at her, seared into her eyelids. She flirted with death constantly - never made it to the grave, though. There was always a time for firsts, Minerva supposed, but in her case, that _first _should have been a _last._ It... it scared her. Minerva hadn't felt that scared in a while.

She cast her inky brown gaze towards the crumpled vault suit she left in the corner of the room, pain flashing across her features.

* * *

_Orlando, Florida circa 2248 _

"Minnie, hand me some of that scrap metal and my wrench. This heap of junk's giving me more trouble than it's worth."

That _heap of junk_ was Vault 64's water purifier, but Minerva knew her daddy would fix it. He fixed everything in the vault, and she helped him. Sometimes she just handed him tools, but lately he'd started teaching her how things worked - and how to repair them when they stopped working. She was ten years old now, old enough to pull her weight around the vault. At least, that's what the Overseer said. She didn't like him so much, and neither did her daddy (or her mama, for that matter) but he took care of everybody, and he trusted her daddy to help him take care of everybody, too.

"What's wrong with it?" The precocious child leaned forward, wide almost-black eyes peering over at her grease-streaked father, calculating the situation. He sounded pretty frustrated and not as lighthearted as he usually was when he tackled these jobs. Allen McAdams sighed, running a large hand through his damp blonde hair and crawled out from beneath the filter with an expression of defeat.

"I can't fix it this time. I'm going to have to leave the vault to find the parts I need, Minnie Mouse. Go find your mother for me - I gotta talk to Paul." He stood up, ruffled his lanky daughter's hair affectionately and headed for the Overseer's office. Unsure what to think about this piece of information, Minerva watched him leave and skulked towards the school room, where her mother taught and entertained the vault's children. Maria McAdams was a beautiful woman of Cuban descent, with strong bone structure, dark hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes that her daughter had inherited. Though Minerva was decidedly whiter in complexion - pale as a ghost, really - their relationship was clear. Minerva loved the stories and songs her mother knew, especially when listening along with the other children. She was always proud to point out that _her_ mama could make that music on her guitar, not anybody else's.

Minerva poked her head inside the classroom and saw her mother sitting at the desk, studying papers. She approached her and relayed the news - Maria's face fell and she knocked her seat back, standing up quickly.

"I've got to talk to him."

Seemed like that was all grown-ups did... talk to each other. She wished they'd talk to _her_ for once.

A week later, her father left the vault, promising he'd be back for her 11th birthday in a month - he just had to buy a very important part for the purifier so they could generate clean water again. She stood at the vault's enormous steel entrance, hugging her mother's legs and watching her father disappear through the tunnel, turning to wave at her right before the thick, circular door groaned shut. She never saw him again.

* * *

Minerva busied herself with the tedious task of freshening up - the point was moot, really, since she'd only get filthy again tomorrow, but it felt nice to splash the lukewarm water over her skin. Soon all the layers of grime were washed off and the cracked mirror reflected a woman who, as hardened and weathered as she was, glowed with youth and energy. A solid afternoon's sleep (she'd gone to bed closer to three in the morning, though it didn't matter since she preferred to travel at night anyway) definitely treated her well. Her eyes were bloodshot, too large for her face, and the pink scar that cut into her right eyebrow sure wasn't pretty - but she still saw her mother. The image haunted her, twisted her gut into knots and constricted her throat, so she looked away and swallowed thickly. She didn't want to think about...

With a grunt, the courier pushed away from the faucet and stalked into the adjacent bedroom, robotically getting dressed in fatigues and wrapping a scarf around her head, which was covered in a dusting of mocha hair that continued to grow like a weed. Settling a pair of amber-tinted sunglasses over the bridge of her nose, Minerva double-checked her pack and set out to bid Nash farewell and start for Nipton.

She noticed at the entrance of his store that - and this amused her more than it should have - a young man's decaying body was sprawled like a sack of rotten meat by the building's window. Not exactly the most stylish welcome rug she'd seen, but upon further inspection (curiosity killed the cat, but she'd only used up a few of her lives so far) she identified the corpse as Daniel Wyatt. A courier. One from the six-part delivery that'd gotten her shot in the head. She clenched her fist around the Mojave Express paper she'd dug out of his pants, wondering what could possibly be so damn deadly about the North Strip packages. Wyatt's delivery was an equally strange item, which sped up the gears turning in her brain. This stunk of conspiracy... or laughably awful coincidence.

Minerva entered, spoke with Johnson and had another lovely dinner of radscorpion casserole and Sasparilla. During their conversation, which mainly centered around what the fuck Primm would do with a deadbeat deputy moping around and no real sheriff, she inquired about the metal pile taking up space on the counter.

"Oh, that's EDE, an eyebot. Can't figure out how to fix it - you're welcome to try. If you do, you can keep her."

Intrigued, Minerva gave the robot a thorough inspection. She _could_ fix it, but there were wires that needed to be replaced - wires that, when she asked, made Nash tilt his head to the side in utter confusion. The courier chuckled and shouldered her sack, thanking him and his wife for the food.

"If I run into the parts EDE needs to work smoothly again, I'll come back and take another look. Good luck with finding a new sheriff - if you get desperate, try reprogramming that security bot. Here's a universal code that might help." She wrote down a series of numbers and protocol commands on a notepad he handed to her. "The night's young. I've got business to take care of."

And so the courier departed for Nipton.


	5. Chapter 4: Nipton

I spent a little more time piecing this together instead of rushing a chapter in one hour. xD I prefer the quality of this better, and it gives me more time to think about what direction I want the chapter to go in. I'll definitely be toying around with point of views, maybe try first person for Minerva or Vulpes' side of things - it might be a little choppy and for that I apologize, but seeing as this is my first story I just want to explore all the different options. ^_^; I apologize in advance because I intend for this story to get darker and darker, so I may take breaks in between for lighthearted one-shots or whatever. Hope it's okay so far, though. Onward!

* * *

Gravel and other debris crunched beneath her boots with every methodical step; tin cans skittered across the fragmented cement, dive-bombing to safety and seeking refuge from the imperious woman who marched on with all the liveliness of a zombie. She walked at a lazy pace, despite the delicate issue of time, observing her environment like a silent, stalking predator. Roaming bison, wind-rustled grass, curious young geckos venturing just out of range - each minute movement, each whisper of noise received careful attention, and her hand never strayed far from the dual revolvers hanging by her hips. Paranoia gripped her mind as tightly as her fingers gripped the cool metal - Minerva's face, however, was a strong, stoic mask. Weakness attracted predators like the scent of blood sang to sharks; she learned that lesson long ago.

Sweat accumulated between her brow, salty rivulets rolling to the tip of her aquiline nose and dripping off - she imagined the droplets evaporating in mid-air, greedily swallowed back up by the blistering sun. Minerva glanced towards the sky, eyes squinting despite amber-tinted aviators and the protective hood of a tattered baseball cap, which she had fit over the scarf shielding her neck and face like a slave's head-wrap - that style, she was more than a little familiar with.

Minerva could make out a few cirrus clouds _tantalizingly_ close to providing some shade. They didn't, of course - Mother Nature worked hard, and at every opportunity, to punish mankind for raping her body. She was pissed, Minerva thought, and rightfully so. Technology and science had stripped her, beaten her down and laughed in her face. Even now, men fought over advanced technology in the struggle to conquer what little was left; Brotherhood of Steel mongrels, NCR, the enigmatic 'Mr. House' who ruled his piece of hell from afar, through robots and cameras; wasn't it a certified genius who once said that repeating the same behavior and expecting different results hallmarked the very definition of insanity? Sadly, the east fared no better than the west. Different names, different places, same cockfight.

If Einstein were around to see _this,_ she mused, he would probably devise a formula to calculate the precise level of insanity that seemed to plague every known faction this side of the Atlantic. What about the _other_ side? Minerva often wondered how those countries coped, if they too were reduced to Neanderthal dynamics. America, the grand ol' _U.S. of A, _was probably the most savage of all civilizations - once a superpower, now merely a hollow shell of a country that couldn't get its shit together. But those were the cards dealt to the United States - its very existence was born from senseless violence and historical disunity, right? Civil wars and discrimination of all kinds littered America's past, and the trend wasn't about to change. Minerva used to want to join and fight for a higher cause, give her life defending what she believed in - then she came to realize she didn't actually _believe_ in anything. There was just the wasteland, and her. Each day she woke up breathing was another day to survive. _Keep swimming. Keep swimming. Keep swimming._

Minerva maintained a hypersensitive awareness of her surroundings, only allowing her mind to wander occasionally - and even then, she still listened, still watched. Though roads were undoubtedly the safest routes to follow, 'safe' was a very relative descriptor and she took nothing for granted. Creatures shied away from the highways and interstates because humans frequented them, and Minerva liked humans even less than she liked critters. Wasn't long before she ran across a few Viper Gunslingers, but she'd once been a 'gunslinger' herself; in retrospect, she could only laugh at her old recklessness, and laugh harder at the men and women she made swiss cheese out of in seconds flat.

The throaty chuckle cut off abruptly when a putrid scent wafted stealthily up her nostrils, halting her in her tracks. It was awful and entirely unexpected, especially on such a clear, windy day. What the hell could smell like burning rubber, rotting flesh and death?

Well... most likely burning rubber, rotting flesh, and death.

Sobered and wary, Minerva continued along the winding pavement, physically unfazed by the odor but extremely concerned by it. She arrived at a large white sign that read 'NIPTON' in faded ink, but at that point, she'd already spotted the town. More specifically, the clouds of smoke that billowed above it. She wandered in cautiously, eyeballing the crimson flags she recognized as the Legion's - and, oh, the severed heads mounted on pikes that peppered the gruesome avenue.

Next came the muted groans of agony, harmonizing with sobs and coughing. A symphony of misery floated through the town, and its conductor -

Minerva paused for a split second after passing the general store and rounding the corner. Her chest felt heavy, heart pounding so fast she thought it might burst from her ribcage; not necessarily out of fear, but from an odd mixture of rage and excitement. Public execution wasn't a shock to her - she'd seen it before, nearly experienced it. The Legion, however... they were fucking crazy, and damn, this... Fuck. Minerva didn't necessarily condone torture, but if her checkered-suit Chairman was nailed to a cross somewhere, she would make sure to shake hands with whoever hammered the nails.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Minerva advanced towards the town hall, where men in red and black uniform were gathered, speaking amongst themselves. They noticed her but were incredibly dismissive - interesting, really, since she was quite clearly packing a lot of firearms and approaching in a direct, confrontational manner. One Legionary, taller than the rest and wearing what appeared to be the head of a wolf, sauntered down the steps and waited patiently, tracking her movements with a piercing stare (or what she imagined to be piercing, under the visor.) Immediately, Minerva knew _this_ was the conductor - what she didn't know, until moments later, was that his voice was as wickedly captivating as his orchestra. She stopped, a few feet away from him, and tilted her head to the side in question.

"Don't worry," the wolf man began silkily, the smallest of smirks gracing his pale mouth. "I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. It's useful you happened by."

"Well, I appreciate that," Minerva drawled in reply, cocking one hip out and settling a hand on it casually. "I'd have to kill you if you tried."

Vulpes ignored her cavalier remark, irritation briefly flickering over his angular features, to which she grinned at. "Mm. I want you to memorize every detail of Nipton's fate - and teach everyone you meet the lesson that Ceaser's Legion taught here. _Especially_ any NCR troops you run across."

Minerva's eyebrows rose in confusion and surprise. She made a show of looking around, swiveling her head left and right, even glancing over her shoulder - then rested her level gaze back on Vulpes, mirroring his eerie smile. "Sorry, I don't see any desks or projectors - what exactly were you teaching here? Quantum mechanics?" She sounded vaguely amused by her own joke, not at all worried about the bloody crucifixes and pyres that surrounded her. "Or... maybe anatomy? The staked heads were a nice touch, very visually stimulating." Yeah, they were actually incredibly disgusting, but the Legionary reacted the way she wanted him to. Taken aback by her lighthearted sarcasm, Vulpes crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her silently before speaking again, sticking to business.

"The lesson is this: that they are weak, and we are strong. Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt. They served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers," (at that, Minerva stifled a giggle - what a ridiculous name, and said with that _voice!)_ "- men of the Legion such as myself - the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores."

The courier grew serious, shifting her weight under her feet and adjusting the aviators that had slipped down the sweaty bridge of her nose. Vulpes Inculta continued.

"For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realize they were caught in it, too."

"Everyone?" Well, it definitely _smelled_ like everyone. Yes, he said, everyone. They were disloyal, he explained, so he punished them for their sins. Minerva could hardly fathom the logic of decimating an entire community for selfishness - this was a post-apocalyptic hellhole, not fairyland. Nipton's transgressions didn't hold a candle to how the Legion acted in response, but the wolf man seemed content to ignore this fact.

"I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch. And I announced the lottery."

She listened, quietly, stone-faced and calm while he described a nightmarish scene that perfectly fit their nightmarish setting. It was disturbingly... poetic, the way he crafted his words, and she found herself drawn to the morbid sense of justice he spoke of. The civilians never fought back - they were cowardly and meek, and so Minerva instantly lost whatever pity she might have felt. She was sure she could never respect the Legion, she knew what those cults were like, but... something intrigued her.

_Something,_ with a voice like velvet that crawled into her skin. _Someone_ who stood in front of her, weaving reason out of madness. She certainly didn't admire the Legion or their twisted morals, but she didn't really _care_ enough to feel disgusted by them, either. She was intrigued - not inspired. So many men, brainwashed by an archaic concept, an ancient civilization's law - yet she could almost agree with their doctrine herself, because it made a lot more fucking sense than the others. But the Legion were slavers, and she would never forgive that.

Vulpes Inculta had finished speaking, she soon realized, and she swore she felt his stare burning a hole in her forehead. What did he see when he looked at her? A tool, a messenger? Minerva was _done_ traipsing around the wasteland delivering shit, be it news or platinum chips that sent her six feet under. The wolf man and his pack didn't scare her - she wanted him to know that.

"You're a sick fuck," Minerva pointed out unhelpfully, while the hand resting on her waist slipped to curl around the butt of her gun. She was thinking, quickly, trying to make a decision - Vulpes made it for her.

"Feel free to attack us, and see where it gets you," he crooned back. A challenge. A _dare._ Heat boiled in her veins and it took massive self-control not to lunge forward and pistol whip him right then, as tempting as it was. Instead, she snorted noncommittally, pulled her revolver from its cradle, aimed at his chest - he stiffened, his men reached for their weapons - and then at the last minute swung her arm and planted a bullet inside the brain of a dying, crucified Powder Ganger, granting him mercy.

"They got what they deserved," the woman growled, flipping the gun in her palm and returned it to its holster in one fluid motion. "I'll spread your damn gospel."

The Legionaries relaxed by small increments, lining up as per Vulpes' instruction. He stayed behind when they began tramping away from the desecrated town to receive Minera's parting words, whispered into his ear before she brushed past him and fearlessly ventured inside the building's ruins. He caught up with his men and pretended to forget the entire episode - but those words he would ponder for weeks to come, from a bizarre woman he would spend just as much time thinking about.

"_Momento mori,"_ she had warned.


	6. Chapter 5: Novac

Well, this took a bit longer than I meant it to, sorry. Thanks for all the story alerts and favorites! And thank you anonymous person who reviewed. =3 And thank you Shadow Ocelot for being made of win and awesome in general. I can't wait to get through all this traversing the wasteland crap so Minerva finally runs into Vulpes again. Everything will play out a lot differently than in the game, but I think it'll work well and make sense. At least I hope it does. A little birdy told me a couple days ago was the anniversary of Caesar's death. Is that true? If so... this one's for you, my liege!

* * *

_"Momento mori."_

It bothered Vulpes Inculta to hear the language of his people from a dissolute.

A woman, no less! Not that he would've known the traveler to be female if she hadn't sassed him - she was practically shapeless in her layers of clothing and armor, face hidden by a strange combination of slave garb and pre-war attire. She sounded raspy, like a chain-smoker might, and Vulpes detected a drawl in her voice that didn't belong to the West. The woman had to be a stranger to the Mojave, then; she clearly didn't understand the magnitude of the Legion's power. Or perhaps she was just a fool – a brave one. He hated those kind the most.

_Nobody _mocked Caesar's Legion in front of an officer and lived! He dared her to speak so brashly at Camp Searchlight, with NCR corpses shuffling around like lost dogs. Would she make light of _that? _Doubtful.

Still fuming, Vulpes silently chewed the grilled mantis legs served to him by a lesser rank, steel-gray eyes searching the night sky for an answer. The stars winked mischievously, as if sharing a private joke at his expense – laughing at him. This nameless profligate plagued his conscience with a mixture of emotions, none of which he perfectly understood.

He should have just killed her for her insolence, or taken her as a slave. She said she would spread the Legion's warning, but with what interpretation? She had seemed oddly unimpressed by his work, which, in a way, wounded his pride more than he liked to admit. He couldn't stop replaying their confrontation in his mind, brief as it was - she piqued a morbid curiosity in him. What would it take to make her squirm in discomfort? How far would he have to go? Anyone who faced death that nonchalantly deserved muling over. But so far, he had very little to mull about - five minute's worth, at most. Hopefully it would stay that way.

Or _hopefully not,_ a part of him whispered.

xXx

Minerva didn't find Benny or the Khans in Nipton. Granted, some of the bodies she sorted through were unidentifiable – remains, really, not bodies – but she felt confident that if she'd found the Chairman, she would've known. It was a messy business, dragging headless or otherwise maimed cadavers around and organizing them into a suitable funeral pyre - she probably would have never bothered in the first place, had she not been searching for three men in particular. Her efforts went unrewarded for the most part, as the amount of useful loot she discovered barely put a dent in the empty pocket spaces of her bag. A few stimpaks, some water, ammo from the Mayor's office - a couple lottery tickets, for souvenirs - and booze. Lots of booze.

Steyn had a fine taste in liquor, she'd give him that. She hoped he wouldn't begrudge her a sample or two or twenty. A few beers and half a bottle of whiskey later, she found she couldn't give a rat's furry tuchus about Nipton's char-grilled mayor - in fact, she ended up dumping said mayor's alcohol over the death mound and setting it alight with a strategically tossed match.

"Burn in hell, motherfuckers!" Minerva whooped over the crackling flames, waving and sloshing her flask theatrically. "There's your fuckin' elegy!"

God, that was so funny to her. The courier chuckled drunkenly all the way to the general store, where she planned to A) nap and B) what else? Stock up on... uh, general stuff. Her train of thought immediately derailed when she slammed open the door and was promptly hollered at, something she wasn't particularly expecting.

"What the shit, man! Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell are you?" She cleverly countered, tempted to throw the glass - took a hearty swig from it instead. Her blood hummed with warmth beneath her skin. The Powder Ganger eyed her suspiciously, but appeared rooted to the spot; one glance at his mangled legs told her he wouldn't be leaving any time soon. When Boxcars didn't answer, she pressed further.

"What are you doing here?" A stupid question, in retrospect. She was too drunk to care. The convict sneered and told her exactly what he thought of her intellect.

"I just _love_ it here. What the fuck do you think, asshole? I got my legs messed up by those _fucking_ Legion freaks! They fucking crippled me!"

"Jesus, shut up," Minerva grumbled, making a point to circumvent the prisoner's seat and begin rummaging through the shelves. He fed her a story that matched the Wolf Man's, and she grunted sympathetically whenever it was appropriate, all up until he demanded Med-X. She wasn't a stingy woman, but she recognized a 'make me a sandwich' tone when she heard one. That shit didn't fly with her.

"What? I ought to break your goddamn arms as well." Minerva fixed him with a scathing look, bagging some of the cram she found behind abraxo cleaner. Boxcars stiffened under her glare and grimaced, back pedaling while he still had limbs to pedal.

"Jeez, forget it. I don't need you anyway. I guess those slaves they took are worse off than I am."

It was Minerva's turn to stiffen. Her buzz seemed to disappear at once, along with the snarkiness. Boxcars watched in fascination as she shifted, set her drink down and pulled medical supplies from her bag, bringing them over. "They took slaves? I didn't see any when they left." She rolled up both pant legs and injected a syringe into his bruised and bloody calf.

"A bunch of those Legion fucks dragged them off right - ow! - away. They was headed East, if you're feeling heroic." Boxcars hissed in pain, then sighed in relief. She'd parted with three Med-X to make him comfortable.

Sparing some analgesics, however, didn't mean she was about to deviate from her plans and go slaver hunting. She never claimed to be an altruist. It bugged her, though, knowing that she _could_... but she wouldn't.

"It's not my problem," she murmured, ripping some fabric off her undershirt and using it as a tourniquet for his right leg, which had taken significantly more damage. She worked on autopilot, prior medical training kicking in as she grew lost in thought. "I need to rest up and get out of here."

"Hey, like I give a fuck. Thanks for the help and everything."

"Yeah... whatever."

xXx

The giant, green atrocity mounted in front of Novac made the settlement easy enough to spot. Minerva laughed at its unsightliness but admitted (after learning of its purpose) that it gave the town a great advantage. Jeannie May directed her to the dinosaur for supplies and information, both of which Minerva desired. The trek to Novac had streamlined her inventory and she was in dire need of ammo and medicine - ammunition she bought, the medicine she swiped. Chet wouldn't miss a few Rad-Xs, right? He was so preoccupied with his little rocket toys, he barely noticed her edging away from the counter.

"Nobody ever buys the rockets, but if you're interested I can give you a discount-"

"No thanks," Minerva cut him off, nodding towards the stairs. "I need to talk to Manny." Chet immediately fell downcast, mumbled something that sounded like "Of course," and began to re-polish his practically empty cash register. The courier shrugged helplessly and ascended from the thoracic cavity to the mouth of the monster.

She peered through the hatch and opened it slowly, allowing the NCR soldier to acknowledge her before she barged in. He was friendly, but more importantly, spoke freely of the Great Khans who ventured through here. Well... he started to. Then he made the mistake of holding out on her.

"Hey, you want something from me, right? Well, I need something from you first." She blinked at the sniper slowly, a cruel smile etching across her face.

"Go on," she replied sweetly.

"Novac's my home now. I want to keep it that way. But the only resource we have here is junk. We get most of it from the old rocket test site nearby. A bunch of ghouls showed up and took it over, though, and, well... I'd like you to get rid of them for us."

Minerva pretended to consider this for a minute. She cocked her head, licked the back of her teeth and scratched her cheek. "Now that's an unfair trade if I've ever seen on, Vargas. You want me to play exterminator just for some directions? Why don't I just pay you some caps?"

Vargas shrugged his shoulders and leaned to one side, bracing his weight on his rifle. "I don't need the caps. If you can't handle the ghouls, I suppose we could work _something_ else out... something more suited to your talents."

After that little remark, everything happened quickly. The hunting rifle fell to the floor of the Dino's jaw, Minerva had a fistful of NCR fabric in her hands and Manny - well, Manny was precariously straddling thick plastic teeth and a fifty foot drop.

"What the hell? You're out of your-"

"Tell me where they went," the courier snarled, pushing him harder into the ceramic dentistry. He uttered an emasculated noise, at a pitch higher than Minerva could manage, and groped desperately, if in vain, for his gun.

"Boulder City! Shit, let go!"

"You wouldn't want that," Minerva laughed, yanking the sniper back to safety. Manny shot her a glare and reached for his rifle again, despite the close quarters. Not fazed in the slightest, Minerva adjusted her ball cap and offered the disgruntled man a cheeky grin, heading for the stairs. "You wouldn't want to shoot me either. I have a bad habit of coming back for revenge."

xXx

Today, Minerva reflected, proved remarkably productive. She'd pissed off not one but _two_ of NCR's First Recon snipers, dined with a nut job, led a two-faced crone to her death and was currently working through a pack of cigarettes with pissed-off sniper numero dos. They smoked in silence, puffing noxious clouds out the gaping maw of Dinky the Dino, enjoying a view of the wide open wasteland and Jeannie May's brain matter, Novac's new welcoming mat. Minerva pointed this out and Boone laughed - a strange sound coming from a guy like him, but not unwelcome. She liked the kid. He was probably in his mid-twenties, but she wasn't (and didn't look) much older, and he'd endured enough grief to gain her respect.

The fate of his wife hit close to home, and she felt his pain, truly. But she couldn't allow herself to dwell, or share her own two cents on the subject; silence, in situations like these, was always the healthier option. She thought about the Legion, and smoked. She thought about Boone's dead wife and child, smoked. Thought about finding Benny and crushing his windpipe. Smoked. Thought about what she'd do afterwards, where she'd go - ran out of cigarettes.

Minerva asked Boone the quickest way to Boulder City. He gave her a couple routes and advised her to be wary of Deathclaws, which were spreading like fire across the Mojave. She thanked him, wished him luck, skipped the condolences and told him to keep bagging and tagging 'em - then she left, parting with the promise that should she ever run into a slaver again, it would be a dead one.

Little did she know, her promise would eventually be broken.


	7. Chapter 6: Boulder City

Shadow-Ocelot: It's funny you say that! The part with Boone took the least amount of effort to word and piece together because I breezed over it, but when I reread it, I came to a similar conclusion. I almost wish Minerva took up a companion before ending up at the Fort. I may think about it. A lot of this so far has just been Minerva in her own little world, and I'm eager to socialize her a bit. Hence the way this chapter ends. ^^ Love ya, ladypants!

Shadows: Lol. Lots of Shadows to respond to. xD Thank you so much! Golly, I'm glad you think Vulpes lived up to his character because I've been mighty nervous to try taking him on. I may insert a chapter here with just Vulpes at camp, to practice his personality and get a better grip with him. Minerva is my renegade baby and we're both very happy you like her. Well, she'd say she doesn't give two shits whether you like her or not, but she's secretly pleased, I promise. xP

Function: Violence. Om nom nom. I completely agree, the Legion deserved more spotlight. I've always been a villain girl, but y'know, the more I write for Minerva and her point of view on things, the more I realize there really IS very little difference between Legion and NCR, _especially_ after you do the Helios mission and the NCR's all greedy about the electricity. At least the Legion wear snazzier outfits, right? And don't you worry. There will be a lot of Vulpes/Minerva action later. I'm just working on getting her to the Fort, developing her personality through the prior chapters and then WHAM. =D It's gonna get rough. Er... rougher than it already is, I mean.

Mayo: May I call you that? I hate writing out the word mayonnaise. But there I go, I just did it. Whatever. And yeah, the way I wanted that to come across was that Minerva's a bit stupidly reckless at times, but her bravado totally takes Vulpes by surprise and he just flies on autopilot to get through the confrontation. Later he's like, "What the fuck? I shoulda nailed her to a post." Or just nailed her. Heh. Spoiler alert? xD

Okay, sorry this update took so long. I had to really force myself to write this because, like I bet many of you are, I'm so eager to get to the good Legion stuff! Enjoy.

* * *

Shit, as it turned out, was never just simple.

Minerva learned that lesson over and over every damn day of her life, but for whatever reason, she always assumed things could be taken care of quickly and quietly if you were fast and strong enough.

In situations like these, however, with a band of Great Khans watching her like hawks and NCR at her flank, 'quickly and quietly' was as far from a realistic solution as you could get. Shit was going down, Minerva knew that much for sure – what she didn't know was how to keep her finely-toned ass out of the catastrophe. It seemed impossible.

The entire ordeal started off on a sour note. Boulder City didn't have much to offer in the way of R&R, so after three day's travel she was forced to make a beeline to the center ruins, layered in dirt, sweat and exhaustion. The lieutenant at the gate probably initially wrote her off as a weary prospector searching for respite – she _was_ carrying a shitload of stuff, which had begun to take its toll on her back – but she straightened him out, all right.

"_I can help, LT," she promised. "You tell your men to keep their panties on. I'll go talk to the Khans."_

"_You think you can negotiate with them?" The lieutenant's skeptical tone revealed how much faith he had in her plan._

"_It'd be easier to sneak in, get your privates and sneak out," Minerva agreed. "But I'm not one for taking the easy route."_

She omitted the part that included her finding her attackers and beating them to a pulp. Now she wished she'd been upfront about it, because Minerva wasn't just in a pickle. She was in the entire fucking jar.

xXx

_Pop pop pop!_ went the sub-machine guns. _Bang, bang!_ bellowed the shotguns. Minerva couldn't hear herself think over the din of weapon fire, which was rather problematic since if she didn't come up with something fast, she'd be turned into courier ground meat.

She was growing intimately acquainted with the pile of rubble she was crouched behind, all the while nursing the throbbing pain in her shoulder, where she'd been shot. The bullet glanced off her collar bone and tore through her trapezius – it hurt like a bitch. Minerva wasn't the sort to crawl to safety like a little bitch, not even in the event of an injury, but she recognized a clusterfuck when she saw one. It was her fault, really, for convincing Jessup to not only hand over information but the hostages as well and then impulsively clocking him in the jaw. He deserved it! But apparently, 'an eye for an eye' was not a proverb Great Khans were familiar with. Chaos ensued; Minerva was shot, Jessup received a blow to the groin and his friend a knife to the gut. Jessup got that, too, but not before the courier had her fun.

"_Guess the Great Khans aren't all that tough to kill," she smiled, digging her knee into his chest as she removed her cap and scarf, revealing the nasty scar on her forehead and the short, bristly hair that would take months of growing to cover it. Minerva then unwound his bandanna and made a show of examining it, all the while applying a crushing pressure to his sternum._

"_I think this will look good on me," she declared, tying it around her head imperiously. The Khan spat in her face, but she wiped off both the spittle and insult without batting an eyelash. _

"_Well, honey, here's your lesson: Don't dish what you can't take."_

Minerva began to regret the entire thing, satisfying as it was, because she didn't consider revenge worth her life. The hostages had been shot down during their mad dash back to safety, Great Khans were running everywhere and firing blindly at the NCR troops storming their borrowed fortress, _she_ was bleeding all over herself and couldn't hold her gun properly.

"Fuck." She winced reloading her 10mm and peeked over the debris she'd hidden under. The Khans numbers dwindled steadily, but Minerva only trusted the NCR as far as she could throw them. They could easily turn on her, blame her for the whole mess and load her with some military bullshit. The last thing Minerva wanted was to be tossed in with the Powder Gangers. Stupid fucking..

"Shit!" A bullet whizzed by, narrowly missing the spot on her skull that had already been there, done that. The courier ducked down, cursing vehemently, and contemplated her options. She could remain a sitting duck and wait for the fighting to end, or she could jump into the fray and pick a side. Both ideas sounded like utter crap to her, so she picked the third, instinctual one.

_Run!_ Minerva braced herself and shot off from her hiding spot, sprinting wildly to the next available cover. She hit the ground in a roll, ignoring the sharp pain of her shoulder. Later, she would thank whatever deity came to mind that she'd left her bags with the lieutenant, because if she hadn't, she'd probably be dead. From there, she repeated the pattern of running and stopping until she was staggering through the gate, clutching her shoulder wound and spewing mindless insults left and right.

All that bullshit for a goddamn cigarette lighter. Minerva was pissed.

xXx

Though Minerva would've liked to carry on her trek to The Strip, resting and tending to her shoulder became the first priority. She spoke briefly with Monroe, who surprisingly understood and accepted her explanation.

"We were given orders to neutralize the Great Khans anyway. Private Gilbert and Ackerman will be remembered as honorable sol-"

"Yeah, well, they're dead," Minerva broke in impatiently, retrieving her pack and carefully arranging it over the shoulder that wasn't compromised. "I'm sorry." Sorry about her wound, not about the soldiers, but he didn't need to know that.

The revised plan was to make a pit stop at Boulder City's pathetic excuse of a bar, administer some stimpaks and catch a light nap. Halfway to the Big Horn Saloon she came across a huge slab of concrete and a man kneeling beside it, as if in prayer.

Curious, Minerva paused, sparing a moment to read the marker's inscription.

"ON THIS SPOT IN THE YEAR  
2277, RANGERS AND SOLIDERS  
OF THE NEW CALIFORNIA  
REPUBLIC TURNED BACK  
THE FORCES OF CAESAR'S LEGION DURING  
THE BATTLE OF HOOVER DAM  
OVER ONE HUNDRED MEN  
AND WOMEN GAVE THEIR  
LIVES ON NEVADA SOIL  
TO DEFEND LOCAL CIVILIANS  
AND THE PRINCIPLES OF THE  
REPUBLIC. MAY THIS HUMBLE  
STONE BE AN ENDURING  
MEMORIAL TO THEIR VALOR  
AND SACRIFICE."

An image of the man at Nipton who wore a wolf-pelt came immediately to mind. What happened here sounded like something _he_ might have devised – a brilliant tactical plan, filled with deception, death and destruction. She could almost hear his satin voice now; _"It was easy to lure them here, with promise of heroic glory..."_

The trooper stooped nearby noticed her and stood, flashing her a sheepish smile. "You here to pay your respects, too?" He had ashy brown hair and wide-set eyes. He didn't look a day over twenty.

"Something like that," Minerva responded absently, reaching up to check on her injury. The private's sharp intake of breath caught her off guard, and she tensed in alarm. "What?"

"You're hurt," he announced, as if it weren't the most obvious thing in the world. Minerva grunted in annoyance and, in the nick of time, remembered it would be unwise to shrug.

"It's not too bad. I'll take care of it with some alcohol."

"You're going to get _drunk?"_ Definitely young.

Minerva spent the rest of the way to Boulder's saloon explaining how she meant to disinfect the bullet hole with hard liquor and medicine. She learned the soldier's name was Arthur Kowalski and he'd suffered causalities close to home – but he'd sworn to serve the NCR with every breath in his body. The more she talked to these guys, the more she realized how similar they were to the Legion – brainwashed young men and women, wanting to belong to something bigger than themselves. Some people couldn't handle the idea of being an insignificant speck on the world, so they joined together like ants in an ant pile. Didn't they realize even ant piles can be wiped from existence by one tramping foot?

The private helped dab vodka on her shoulder and even assisted with the Med-x. She only used a quarter of a stimpak because her supply was dangerously low, but Kowalski kept her company while she waited for the analgesic to take effect.

"So where are you normally stationed, kid?" Not that Minerva actually cared, but there were a few questions she wanted to ask – some small talk would lead up to that.

"Camp McCarran. I'm on leave right now. I plan to go visit my family, but first I wanted to come by here, for Donald and all."

"Your brother," Minerva clarified.

"Yeah. He enlisted just a bit before I did. Guess it was a shock to my parents, losing both their sons at once, but at least I can still visit them." His eyes grew distant, obviously trapped in some memory. After allowing him a few minutes of nostalgia, Minerva pressed him.

"What exactly happened at Boulder? It's a shithole now."

Kowalski gave a watery laugh. She was sure he agreed, even if he'd choose something less disrespectful to describe the city and its history. Minerva pushed her untouched beer towards him and arched her brow as a cue.

"A bunch of NCR rangers lured the most elite Legion to the city – then they blew it up. We still had major losses. My brother sacrificed himself to save some of the wounded." He gulped down some of Minerva's beer and slammed the bottle down, jolting the table. "We won't go quietly. The Legion can count on that."

It was Minerva's turn to chuckle. The guy had a lot of spunk, but he was just like the rest.

"Sure you won't, kid. You'll go screaming in agony, or hitched up on a cross, moaning for death." Her response aroused suspicion in both Kowalski and Ike, the bartender. A palpable silence stretched across the saloon, sliced only by the western melody that crooned eerily into the tension-filled room.

"Just whose side are you on, McAdams?" Kowalski asked slowly, pursing his lips into a thin line. The bartender leaned across his counter, eager to hear Minerva's answer.

"I'm in the center," she murmured, wiping a streak of dirt off her cheek and standing up. It was time to head for The Strip. "It's too easy to fall off when you're on a side."


	8. Chapter 7: Freeside

A/N: Holy super-late-updates, Batman! Weren't expecting this in your inbox this afternoon, were ya? Heh.

Sorry it took me so long to bust this chapter out. Pity it took me so long because all of this is really just a build-up to the meat of the story, which is Minerva's fall from grace and the painstaking process of building herself back up again. I hate to give things away but since I've taken ages to get a simple filler chapter out, I feel like I ought to throw a little teaser out there.

TiggerMusica: Ha! I actually killed Vulpes when I first met him too, only because I was so freaked out by the staked heads and the burning shit. Later I developed an appreciation for his.. methods. As you can tell, lol.

Vault108: =) Thank you! I've struggled with being concerned that Minerva might seem too in control, but since that'll all be crumbling away soon, I feel comfortable portraying her with that tough edge that I've always imagined in my Couriers. Since my story is rated M I think that's why it only shows up when you click M... there's a filter or something, right? Or maybe I misunderstood you. I dunno. I'm just glad you found it and have enjoyed it thus far. XD

HarmlessWampa: Aw, thanks. That means a lot. You'll have to thank Shadow Ocelot for inspiring me to start writing, it's her awesome friggin story Imperium et Libertas that I read, fell in love with and decided to try my hand at writing because of. Villains... unf. Amen, sista. The bad boys are always the hottest.

And now... drumroll please... Chapter 7 is here, finally! No thanks to Lucidique, Shadow Ocelot and Fortunesque for distracting me with their awesomeness... Lol. I jest. They actually have given me feedback and help and love. Heheh, you guys are the bombdiggity shizznits. Check out their stories if you haven't already because HOT DAMN. That's all I really need to say, lol.

Enjoy.

* * *

**_"When you steal NCR equipment, tools, and personal property… YOU ARE HIS BITCH."_**

Minerva didn't expect to run into Vulpes Inculta again so soon – let alone in an NCR Ranger camp. Yet here he was, staring at her through those off-putting dark goggles, his frozen grimace inviting defiance from her even on paper. She could almost smell death and cruelty just by looking at him – feel it creeping up her veins and churning in her heart. But without all the trivial distractions in Nipton (the dead people _had _been a little distracting) she could actually pause to study his strong features and appreciate the harshness of his beauty.

"Vulpes Inculta," said a voice behind her. "He's one mean son of a bitch."

Minerva turned to face the man who had joined her in the Ranger tent, betraying no emotion, though she was pleased to finally learn the Dog Head's name. Vulpes Inculta… that rolled off the tongue, didn't it? She found the name suiting for someone so smooth-spoken.

"I'd say," the courier replied, rubbing her arms for warmth. It grew cold at night in the desert, and dawn was only just beginning to break. She'd found the NCR camp out of pure dumb luck, and it sure beat getting pulverized by an army of lakelurks down by the so-called 'beach.' Boulder City Beach was a big fucking pond, not a beach – an irradiated ocean was a magnificent thing to behold, and that _puddle _didn't even come close to the Gulf. Still, lakelurks weren't to be laughed at. Minerva was glad to have stumbled into NCR territory again; a cot and some warm food was infinitely better than decomposing inside an oversized turtle's stomach. Minerva was reputed among NCR as a successful bounty hunter who offered her services for a fair and deserving price, so they helped patch her up, rationed her some food and let her rest.

"I ran into him and the Legion at Nipton, south of here." Her gaze returned to the poster. The officer's face fell, and he moved closer, crossing his arms over his chest, listening. "They completely wasted the town – let me go so I could give the NCR a bedtime story about it."

"Legion, that far west? God damn it. You're serious?"

Minerva shrugged her uninjured shoulder carefully. "Sure as hell I'm serious. The Legion is pissing and shitting all over NCR, so I suggest you find an umbrella, stat."

The Comm Officer groaned and rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Can't say I disagree with your advice, McAdams, but we have to fight back. Have you heard about Nelson?"

"Yep," Minerva replied, casting her dark eyes back towards the poster. "Like I said… the Mojave's forecast is piss and shit. Lots of it."

"It's raining piss, hallelujah," Castillo sang miserably.

xXx

He recognized her almost immediately. It was her swagger, he thought - or the clothes, or the bottomless black eyes that shot straight through his soul.

Tales of her deeds were spread liberally across the Mojave and had caught hold of Caesar's attention, so it didn't come as a surprise that after Vulpes regaled the Fort with his tale of Nipton, Caesar ordered his best Frumentarius on a covert mission to bring the infamous mercenary-turned-courier back to camp.

But of all the places to stop in Freeside, he found it strange that a woman as prone to violence as she would make a beeline for the Atomic Wrangler rather than paying Mick and Ralph or Silver Rush a visit. He wasn't surprised, however, that she declined the aid of a bodyguard - she probably believed she didn't need one, and she was right on two fronts. From what he'd heard, Minerva McAdams had a deadly aim and lightning fast reflexes; but if for some reason a street thug managed to best her, he would step in. On Caesar's behalf, of course.

Vulpes would admit Caeser's interest in the Courier had merit, and the longer he observed her from the shadows, the more he realized this. She sauntered in the Atomic Wrangler like she owned it, marched up to the bar and gave both Garret twins a loose hug. Chatter erupted between the three of them, and the Legionary managed to pick up snippets of their conversation while remaining inconspicuous, settled within ear and eye shot but far enough away to avoid recognition.

"James," The Courier exclaimed, laughing over something the twin said. Her laugh was rough and dark, just like the rest of her, and it sounded like she could of easily been laughing at a crucifixion rather than a good joke. She fascinated Vulpes; the way she moved, the way she spoke, the things she said - he'd never seen a Profligate quite like her. It was refreshing and... even a bit arousing. The Courier was attractive, and to see her fiery spirit tempered down by a slave collar and a strong Legion soldier inflamed him with a curious desire. Perhaps Caesar would agree...

Minerva was certainly a mystery, and her interpersonal dynamics varied to every extreme. She'd practically ravished the inexperienced crier outside the Wrangler with her eyes and voice, but with James she spoke casually and fondly, how a sister might. Francine received a similar tone, yet something in the cruel twist of her lips seemed sultrier. It wouldn't surprise him in the dirt-smeared, rough-around-the-edges Courier turned out to be a skirt chaser. He only counted himself lucky that he happened to wear a skirt on a regular basis.

Shaking the odd, stray thought away before it could take root, Vulpes straightened his posture and set down his cards. He was barely paying attention the gambling game he'd joined, instead eying the Courier as she maneuvered through the crowd and up the stairs. He had to handle her tactfully, and his gut told him to wait. So wait, he would.

Vulpes absently picked up his cards, flashing a disarming smile at the men he was playing with and showed his hand.

"Full house. I win."

xXx

Minerva dumped her bag of things onto the bed in her room and began to undress, thankful for an evening of respite. Out in the Mojave she never got any real sleep, just a facsimile of rest that rejuvenated her enough to trudge on through the next day. But here, in her old room, she could finally shut her eyes and succumb to a much-needed oblivion. The Garrett twins were her former employers and two of her good friends – she was happy to see them, and vice-versa. She knew they'd let her stay free of charge, at least for a little while, and that was long enough for her. She'd already formulated her plan. In the next 32 hours, Benny would be dead and she'd have her costly little package back (unless the ox had pawned it – then she'd be _really_ pissed.)

Minerva shrugged out of her clothes and began to rummage through the dresser beside the mattress. She found a clean, pale green linen dress folded up among a few others and pulled it out, deeming it suitable for her mission. Though her style usually fell along the lines of 'guns blazing', confronting Benny would take some finesse and a lot of charm. Places like The Tops disarmed you before you entered anyway, so she was alright with leaving the majority of her guns here – all she really needed was her switchblade, anyway.

Setting the handy hold-out knife on the nightstand, Minerva slid into the wrinkled gown in the same perfunctory way she did everything else. Some days she felt like a ghost, floating along without any driving force besides her own stubborn will. She used to enjoy her lack of purpose; it gave her liberty to be reckless because she had no responsibility other than her own survival. But ever since waking up in Good Springs... a strange, unwelcome feeling of loneliness had been slowly creeping over her. She was beginning to wonder if her life had any meaning – if she died now, this very moment, would she feel accomplished? Complete? The answer was no.

That worried her. It made her lose focus and she couldn't lose focus, not now, not when she was so _close _to getting what she wanted. She just needed to rest. A little shut-eye would assuage her nerves and tomorrow she'd be ready to show Benny a real good time; yeah, a fuckin' _blast._

xXx

Vulpes had ended up renting a room at the Wrangler himself, but he was awake early in the morning and back down at the bar, his hat drawn low over his face while he sipped at a small glass of whiskey for appearance's sake. The taste of alcohol appalled him, but in order to fit in New Vegas society, it was a necessary evil.

James Garret had yet to show up behind the bar, but his sister was handling the customers with an admirable efficiency. He watched her, calculatingly, waiting for his chance to engage in conversation. She'd been quite friendly with the Courier, so he was willing to bet she knew a lot more about her than he did.

When she caught a break and was polishing glassware with a thoughtful expression, Vulpes swooped in. He scooted closer to her and nudged the whiskey that he'd barely consumed towards her.

"Would you top that off for me?"

"Sure thing." She bent to grab a bottle of whiskey and began pouring it.

"How are things in Freeside? I haven't been here to visit in a while." Vulpes took a small swig of his drink and offered Francine the same beguiling grin he'd deceived his gambling partners with the night prior.

She snorted softly. "NCR's been sticking their little fingers in a pie that doesn't want them there. They've been trying to take over Freeside under the guise that they're 'helping' us. It's a load of crap. This will be considered NCR territory before long. Who knows what that'll do to business." She shrugged her shoulders helplessly and started to wipe the counter down.

"Yes, the NCR does have a very... inefficient way of dealing with things, don't they," Vulpes agreed smoothly. "They've never really-"

Whatever else Vulpes intended to say vanished somewhere in his throat. He'd chanced a look over at the line of rooms upstairs and his eyes met with... well, he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing.

Was that the _Courier?_ He blinked a few times to erase any doubt. Yes, that had to be her, but... what was she wearing? Was she wearing a _dress?_

Vulpes didn't often ogle women – he could appreciate their aesthetic value but he preferred them hard-working and out of the way. The Courier was certainly hard-working, but she had to be the most _in the way _woman he'd ever come across. She marched through the Mojave like she owned it. She was a specimen he'd never encountered before.

He wasn't sure what to think when he saw her step down the stairs in that green... _dress. _ It floated around a pair of long, shapely white legs and exposed more skin on her than he'd ever had the pleasure of seeing before. It left little to the imagination, but Vulpes imagination was having a field day deciding just what she looked like beneath the soft, feminine fabric. Lean, toned... scarred, he guessed. Her head wrappings were gone, revealing boyishly short hair and a nasty, jagged line that marred the top part of her forehead and slashed into her hairline. From what he'd heard, that particular scar was why Minerva had come to pay New Vegas a visit.

"Really what?" Vulpes slid his eyes back to the Garret sister, torn from his wandering thoughts. It took him a second to remember what he'd been saying.

"Impressed," he finished, pushing his glass full of whiskey back across the counter. "Here, on me. I have business to attend to." Minerva had descended the stairs and was heading straight for the bar. He nodded politely to Francine and escaped with only seconds to spare before the Courier reached the bar and the two women erupted into friendly chatter. He slipped out of the Wrangler quietly, and headed towards The Strip, where he knew Minerva would be going eventually.

It wasn't time to introduce himself yet. But it would be time soon enough.

* * *

Here's a visual of her in the dress in case anybody's interested. I like throwing pictures out here and there to enhance the story.

Tinypic(dot)com /r/2cnwghy/7


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